Sickles and Hammers
by Black Rose Heart
Summary: It's a time of revolution in the city of Petrograd. The ruling family will be toppled by the onslaught of protest. Amid it all, Karkat Vantas, an agent of the revolution, will find himself behind opulent enemy lines along with an unlikely friend. Humanstuck, Russian Revolution Alternate History AU. Johnkat.


A/N: *throws confetti into the air* Happy birthday me! And also anyone who finds this story. Happy birthday to you too. It's everyone's birthday. I wrote this as a drabble, and then it got bigger. And we studied the Russian Revolution in class so I said "Communism Communism. I'm making it happen" and I did.

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== Shit, let's be communist

Winter was cold. He scoffed, dry warm breath catching in his scarf before the air crystallized what little moisture there was. Winter was always cold.

And yet there was a spark running through the crowds of angry workers, injured veterans, and dissidents. A quick, sudden illumination that set fire to incendiary thoughts.

Soon, he thought. Soon everywhere would be ablaze in a sea of red, decorated by the tools of workers. He hoped it would be soon.

Workers. Workers built this nation and made it what it is. And the pampered, blind idiot on the throne can't see worth shit of that, but takes all the credit for it. It was enough to boil the blood of thousands. Those thousands milling around the streets of St. Petersburg, or Petrograd, whichever they were calling it now. One of which was a metalworker by the names of Karkat Vantas.

The worn thin soles of his work boots hit the cobblestones with a definitive clunk, He was just lucky it wasn't snowing today. There was no one more fortunate in the winters than the metal workers, since their work required heat and flame. It was better than being a farmer during this season.

For the longest time, his family had owned a little piece of land near their village. Not a grand operation, but it just happened to be caught up on the Eastern Front of a war that the world felt entitled to fight. When the draft reared its ugly head, who could blame the Vantas family for leaving? Leaving their tiny slice of home and plentiful wheat fields for a cold city and famine. At least they regretted it now.

But of course, Papa thought he could fix everything, just like he fixed their home in the cold stone of the city, fixed Karkat a job, fixed Mamoshka a comfy business from home. Except that now, he fancied himself a fixer of the government. They'd meet in the smoky backrooms of bars, chilly alleyways, tightly-packed houses, but everywhere, everywhere there was talk of rebellion. Sickles and hammers cutting and pounding the fringes of the monarchy into a new shape.

Lost in thought, he slammed into a passerby on the streets. The impact jostled both of them, elicited ride shouts from the other, but Karkat kept walking with grim determination. They had a meeting today. No one was told more than a couple of days in advance, and it was only through fearful, quiet whispers that anyone was told at all.

He had the feeling it was going to be a long day.

His house was hot and crowded when he crossed the crumbling threshold. Gray and brown coats wandered around in the whitewashed rooms. A roaring fire had been stoked in the fireplace, quickly consuming the firewood it was fed. He was lucky again, the day was cold enough to warrant the expenditure of their limited supply of wood. Good things came in threes. Maybe he was up for another surprise.

"Attention, comrades!" The commanding voice rang throughout the small dwelling. Friendly chatter ceased as the Sufferer began to speak. "We have suffered long at the hands of the royal imbeciles on the throne! They are ignorant to our woes. We must make them _see_!"

Everyone nodded along, young men with straggly beards, women twisting their hands nervously. They were completely devoted to the message. One Karkat Vantas was setting a blackened kettle on top of the stove. He's heard Papa recite this last night, as he prepared for today's gathering. He might as well make himself comfortable in his own home.

"…as workers, we demand the rights that are ours, the wages that will feed our families, the liberation of our poverty-stricken from hunger's grasp! We are…" The speech registered at the corners of Karkat's mind. He was searching for some of the tea they had purchased a long time ago for a bargain from a visiting ship. They were at the back of the cupboard, those sneaky bastards.

"Karkat? Hello?" A cheerful voice whispered, making him jump back, ready to slice the threat in half-

Oh. Her again.

"Nepeta! Jesus fuck, don't scare me like that." Karkat let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Sorry! It's just so funny, your face gets all scrunched up when you get angry." She poked his cheek playfully.

He jabbed her back in the shoulder. "Lay off, would you?"

"Aw, what's a girl to do if she can't bug you?"

"Keep her goddamn paws off me, that's what." Making a final attempt for the tea leaves, he snagged a small wooden box from a high shelf, quickly recovering the goods.

"Ooh! Can I have some tea too?" Her eyes were wide and eager.

"If I have water left."

"I'll take what I can get."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Good."

"Good."

They both snickered just as the kettle whistled. Not wanting to cause a distraction, Karkat grabbed the kettle and poured the boiling water into two chipped mugs, adding a couple pinches of tea leaves to each. He placed the box back up on the shelf and sighed. Papa was still droning on.

"So how's the job at Zahhak's?" Nepeta asked.

"Well, thanks for the recommendation there, but the owners need to stop their crusty-ass behaviors. Probably some nobles who threw all their fucking money at something that didn't work, then fell back on the old "make workers slave away in our glorified sweatshop for fucking days on end" plan."

She laughed. "Glad it's going so well, Karkitty."

He relaxed his shoulders a little. Nepeta was probably his best friend, they'd known each other since they could toddle. She could read him like one of those shitty romance novels she loves. "Yeah, it is. At least it's warm, unlike every other place in this godforsaken hunk of rock."

"Nice 'n toasty for widdle Karkitty paws." She jabbed him with an elbow, jostling his tea.

"Dammit, cut that out!" He muttered. She was a pest.

"…we are all together united as one, strong, invincible party! The workers! The laborers! Making the gloves that sit upon the idle hands of the rich and conceal the treachery of the ignorance of the mind, we are the true Russia! The true…"

"Fuck, Papa, you know how to give a goddamn word spear to the eardrum." Karkat said to himself.

"Hm, he sure does. Wonder if you got that from him."

"I don't sound like that."

"Do too." A poke.

"Do not." A prod.

"Do too!" A jab.

"Shhh! He's getting to the good part."

Karkat noticed the crowd's rising fervor. This was the part where Papa got powerful. The whole room vibrated with a fierce, righteous energy.

"We are workers!"

The crowd echoed back. "Workers!"

"We demand rights!"

"Rights!"

"We will not be silent!"

"Not silent! Not silent!" The crowd chanted, over and over. "Not silent! Not silent!"

The two began cheering as well. Having many more people than last week was worth a celebration. They could tell by the noise, the sheer noise, making the joists of the house creak and rocking the foundation.

"Not silent! Not silent!"

After a couple minutes, the shouts slowly halted. Throats had gone hoarse and scratchy. The Sufferer looked weary, yet optimistic, like an old wise man teaching his bright pupils the ways to enlightenment. "Good day to you, workers. Until next time."

The crowd began to filter out the doors, some lingered to talk, to speak in a free place with the man behind the movement.

Karkat sighed. "Papa's too fucking busy these days. The revolution's made him so damn tired. He crashed into bed every night like a sack of potatoes."

Simultaneously, the duo took a sip of their tea, feeling the hot elixir spread warmth to their insides. It was a marvelous sensation in the depths of a Russian winter.

"Well, life could always be worse. We could be out on the streets. We've got tea and companionship" Nepeta smiled, leaning back on the wall. "But no cats in your house. You could use a cat."

"Papa and I have no fucking room for another tiny mouth to feed, and you know it. Cats are some of the most stupid, lousy, goddamn useless creatures in this city. Besides the tsar."

"Karkat!" She jabbed him in the gut with a bony elbow. "Cats are so lovely, you're being silly. There's a lot of them in the alley behind the butcher's shop, I visit them all the time. The Tsar isn't fit to be compared to them."

"Doesn't deserve to clean their dirty-ass fur with his tongue."

"Ew, Karkat! But yeah, he's a scumbag."

"Doesn't even leave us a decent heir. I heard the kid's disabled or fucked up in some way."

She giggled. "Like he falls down and can't get up, like Old Varashka."

"Old Varashka is like a fucking warrior Cossack compared to that perfumed shitbag."

"You said it."

They sat in silence for a bit, sipping tea until the cups were empty and the soggy leaves sat in the bottom of the cup. The light from the stove's belly radiated into the section of the house they called a kitchen. A table, an ancient, blackened stove and a small cabinet made by their old carpenter neighbors lay around the room. A thin, twine clothesline ran from the corners of the room, since any wet clothes left outside would freeze this time of year. They hadn't done wash this week, so it was thankfully empty. It wouldn't do to have revolution members staring at your sodden undergarments.

Papa was in the front room, heatedly discussing the works of Marx and Locke. Karkat sighed, took off his scarf and walked across the room to hang it on a peg near the fireplace to dry. When he came back, Nepeta had dumped his last drops of tea into the saucer and was closely examining the clumps of leaves.

"What the hell?"

She didn't look up from the chipped cup. "It's a tea reading. They say the shapes the leaves make predict your future. Want to hear yours?"

"Superstitions are as nonexistent as Terezi's ass."

"Don't be such a sourpuss. Now let's see…" The cup was tilted a couple degrees back, allowing Karkat a picture-perfect view of a bunch of soggy used tea. He didn't see the appeal.

Nepeta scrunched up her face in her best impression of a wizened old white witch. "I see something ve-_eer_rry interesting in your tea, young man. I see a gate, symbolizing great opportunity for happiness." She pointed to two rounded rectangular blobs in the center of the cup.

"Nepeta, how the shitting hell does that look like-"

"-and I see a sickle, the tool of the farmer, your family's past trade. You will reach a disappointment, yet only time will tell."

"So how's that supposed to make me feel better-"

"-but! I see a hammer, near the cup's handle. You shall overcome obstacles that lie in your way."

He squinted. "You're fucking with me. That looks like some flies sitting around a big bell-shaped piece of shit."

"Ah! That means that with unexpected news, there will be great annoyance!"

"I could've told you that! Maybe it's really symbolizing my desire to throw up a bunch of rage so I can turn it into a snake and strangle you with it."

Nepeta angled the cup. "No, don't see anything about rage snakes."

"Well maybe if you turned it like this…" Karkat attempted to yank it out of her hands. The attempt was an overwhelming success.

"Meanie!" She crossed her arms and looked over at the fire. Another hungry tongue of flame was devouring one of the last dry logs, carbonizing the surface with a faint crackling sound. "Hey, Karkat?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you ever think we'll actually do anything?" Her voice had suddenly shrunk five sizes, from her normal happy tone to a small and scared child.

"Do anything where? To this fucking gigantic country? I doubt it." He tapped her shoulder lightly, then placed his arm around her. "But we are helping people, remember? We're dealing in hope, not politics. I think we'll be just fine."

Shouting rang out from the next room. "Karkat? Karkat? Son?"

The boy cursed under his breath. "Well, looks like Papa's got a job for me. What's it this time, yanking orphans out of a river? Helping old ladies with a couple kopeks in their pockets to donate?" Begrudgingly, he walked over to the front room.

This wasn't what he was expecting.

The man standing there was dressed finely, his top coat was fur-lined with shined buttons. The hat he wore was new and looked exceptionally warm, if a bit unusual in terms of fashion. And those boots couldn't have been that old. The stranger came over to shake his hand.

"Hello, I'm so very sorry for my abrupt entrance, please excuse me." It was a firm handshake, but the man kept looking around. He seemed slightly twitchy and distracted. "You must be Karkat, yes, of course you're Karkat, I just…well…that's beside the point…and…I…"

"Please, comrade, do get to the point." The older Vantas suggested.

"Oh! Yes, yes, I was studying up on the manners that I could use to convey this, but I'm not quite sure, and oh, you don't even know yet, but…I'm sorry let me start again. Would you like to get a job at the palace?"

"No."

"Well, um, I'm sorry to hear that, but I really must insist, no, I mean implore…You see, this would give you an opportunity to, uh, find a connection to the palace, for any sort of thing we might need that connection for. And I believe your work at the metal worker's place isn't all week, so on your off days you could work at the winter palace, and, you know. Does that make sense?"

Some pieces clicked in Karkat's mind. This would mean a decent job, where it's warm, and he could slip some poison into a goblet given the chance. He could do this goddamn revolution a favor and get paid a couple more kopeks. Win-win situation.

"I guess I'll take it, Comrade…?"

"Zabavno. Dvor Zabavno, at your service. I'm part of the workforce at the palace, and they needed an extra boy to do some work, helpers are so hard to come by after…you know." He gulped nervously.

There was no need to elaborate. Ever since the dreadful Bloody Sunday, everyone avoided the palace with a fervent dedication. Karkat had been only five years old when it occurred, but the stories about it haunted domiciles of revolutionaries.

"I knew you would agree, Karkat." His father patted him on the back. "You are a brave young man."

Karkat didn't respond to this. "So what am I going to be doing, exactly?"

Zabavno counted off on his gloved fingers. "Well, there's general silver polishing, rug beating, room upkeep, floor cleaning, dusting, and that should be about it. Thank you so much for agreeing, young sir, I've been looking for another pair of good hands for a while. Just, there is one rule everyone must follow. But the first step is showing up tomorrow morning, near dawn, so I'll see you there!"

Without another word, he exited, tripped briefly on the slight step, then got back up and continued down the street.

Karkat just gave his father a long, hard stare. "What."

Papa looked slightly sheepish. "It was a new job? In a strategic position? I thought he wasn't the one coming to explain this? Do any of those reasons work for you, son?"

"Just one question. Does it have anything to do with that fucker Pyatno?"

"He's Comrade Zabavno's employer."

"Papa! You, of all people, know that he's a crackpot full of failed assassinations and bitter plans of regicide! He's the joke of the revolution! The only reason no one tattles on him is because he would stab them through the heart first."

"He is a valuable ally, and he's never been convicted or even suspected."

"…I don't like it." On one hand, it would be tiring, mindless work, but on the other, there would be a little more money to go around and he was finally getting to the front line of the revolution. It was an opportunity not worth missing. "I'll do it anyway."

"That's just fine. Dawn, remember. And the borscht for dinner will be ready soon."

Karkat nodded. "I'd better tell Nep the news."

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A/N:

Dvor Zabavno is a google translation of Courtyard Droll, Pyatno means Slick...maybe. I spent a good while on Wikipedia learning the romanizations of Cyrillic. Yeah, I'm as accurate as a high school student can be at translating a completely new language. My apologies go out to those who know Russian and just sort of shook their head and rolled with it anyway. Any other Russian names are probably whatever I thought sounded Russian enough and hopefully are complete nonsense. With my luck, they're rude curses.

I am the queen of birthday gifts it is me. Even when it's my own birthday. Subject to more sporadic updates as I waste class time. Happy reading!


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